


Of Inevitable Ache

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Cock Warming, Jon's a bog witch in this one, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Spanking, compulsion kink, the endless struggle between intimacy and isolation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Jon just wants to live in his swamp in peace. Peter makes this difficult.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas (background), Peter Lukas/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 22
Kudos: 213





	Of Inevitable Ache

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "[But first, the stomach](https://books.google.com/books/about/Portrait_of_My_Body_as_a_Crime_I_m_Still.html?id=f1agwwEACAAJ)" by Topaz Winters

That... thing is in the bog again.

Jon glares dourly through the window, dingy glass that’s hazy with age. He read somewhere, once, that glass is a liquid, albeit a very, very condensed one, and that like all liquids it will slowly succumb to the lure of gravity, drifting and twisting and accumulating downwards. This glass is streaked with what looked like tear stains, now, stamped in time between its planes - accompaniment to the streaked splatters rain leaves on its far side, and through all these thousands of tears Jon watches It.

 _It_ is a thing, of that there is no doubt. And it comes from- well, Jon prefers the imagery conjured by the word "bog" but he’s quite well aware that there are plenty who would characterize the waterlogged, mossed and mildewed landscape his grandmother once made a home as a swamp.

And It is a generally unwelcome guest.

It isn’t just that the thing is a disturbance to the otherwise serene homeostasis to which Jon is accustomed (though he is prepared to admit that this fact forms what is not an insignificant cornerstone of his dislike). If he’s being completely honest, the fact that the creature materializes itself out of the damp fog, shrouds itself in cold and chill and, curiously, the uneasy sensation that it _being_ has somehow made everything (thing. No. Every _one_ ) else become.... distant, then-

Well. In the interest of being completely honest, Jon can admit it wouldn't have bothered him quite so much. If that was the extent of it, just some chill and mist and the creep of a deeply existential misery. The certainty that it will be him, alone, until his meat has withered and dried to form a light, hollow husk in the isolation he's cultivated for himself, known only by the passing gaze of a stranger wandering through his bog.

Jon could have tolerated that.

Instead, Jon watches through his window - through the furrow of his brow that only grows increasingly severe - - through the dribbling rain that’s more like spittle speckling against his window - as the thing meanders slowly, so slowly, towards his front door. As it always does, being possessed of the unfortunate inclination to... talk to him.

It’s too late to put out his lights, isn't it? Jon wastes the quick puff of breath to out the nearest candle anyway, rewarded by the figure outside his home pausing - _good_ , a vicious little thought inside him, _go away_ \- before continuing on its housebound trajectory.

"Damn it," softly, and to himself.

As the thing comes closer Jon can hear the jaunty tune it whistled, too lively by far for the circumstances. It flicks the dangling edge of a ward laid out around the property as it passes. Well and so, it’s already proven time and time again that it can stroll past any barrier Jon might erect. Even if Jon has spent the better part of a month researching and refining more potent repellents. He isn't disappointed. It’s just to be expected.

Jon watches it from his window until it goes out of view, tucked behind the alcove of the entryway to his house. The thing waits there, as if expectant of an invitation Jon is determined to absolutely not give. Then, it knocks, a pattern to the sound that Jon just knows is part of its ridiculous sailor's song, as if it’s come to port at a seaside and not traipsing around an otherwise private and enjoyable bog.

"Are you not home today, Jon?" The thing asks him. Jovial and empty like the inside of a greeting card. "Come on, I just want to see how my favorite little witch is doing."

Jon is not a witch. He is a patron of certain arts and practices, and the fact that Peter- that the _It_ routinely refers to him as such is just another reason to sink below his kitchen table and remain there for, oh, Jon doesn't know, the remainder of the evening, perhaps just until the end of time and the boiling heat death of the universe.

"I know you're in there - there really isn't anywhere else for you to be, is there?" Peter says, gentle as a knife's edge, cutting so quickly it's almost painless.

Almost, Jon reflects, irritated at the fog of his breath against the glass.

"Besides," Peter continues, "I saw you at the window."

The house Jon inherited from his grandmother is small. Cozy, maybe. Cluttered when his grandmother was alive, sparse now that she's gone. Everything particular, and in its place, organized to function rather than design, with the floating shelves along the far kitchen wall cluttered with tightly segregated dried herbs, a small table currently stacked with the latest tomes he's unearthed from the Sunken Pit.

From there the kitchen joins onto a small sitting area, guest seats stiff with misuse and Jon's personal perch looking ever more worse for wear. A coffee table holds an optimistic set of four rough stone-cut coasters, dark grey and steep angled, upon one of which sits a long since forgotten cup of tea, cool and congealing. A small lamp flickers serenely at the corner.

Windows flank the outer facing walls, and a lone doorway allows entrance to the back hall that branches off to the washroom and the bedrooms, and opposite that the walls of the kitchen and living space meet to cordon off the foyer and front entrance. Outside of which the _thing_ is sitting, humming just out of tune enough to catch Jon's ear and make him wince.

Jon considers digging his heels in. He considers which of them might prove to be more stubborn.

An indescribably weak part of himself considers something else entirely. A part of himself he likens to a mouth, wet with the anticipation of a meal. He'd like to say his spite, if not his common sense, is enough to keep him from moving forward and opening the door. He'd like to say that there is any part of him that doesn't feel a bit half-starved.

It's a foregone conclusion when Jon finally lurches into motion, stalking over to yank his door open just as Peter has started to rap his fist against the wood in a fresh bout of mirthful rhythm.

"Ah," Peter says, drawing his hand back with an unfair amount of ease, of dis-surprise. "There we are. I was beginning to wonder how long it would take you to poke out of your little shell."

Fog clings to the ground, rolls its way thickly inside around their feet, and Jon watches the small wisping curls of it that spiral slowly into the air around Peter himself. It's disconcerting, how much Peter feels like a... not-presence. When Jon closes his eyes it's like he's still alone.

"What do you want?" Jon asks. He tries to focus on how human Peter looks – pale skin and pale hair and broad, looming body that should give him presence. He tries not to See anything beyond that.

"Why, to see you, of course." Peter presses forward and Jon remains planted in his own doorway. "Do I need to want more than that?"

"Yes." Jon glares at him, bristling at the warm chuckle Peter gives in response. "I already know how this is going to go."

"Do you?"

"You're going to- to bully your way inside-"

"I'm a bully now, am I?"

"-And waste time neither of us have talking around whatever favor you really want-"

"Hmm."

"-When you could just tell me why you've come now and save us both the headache."

Jon has to crane his neck to keep a proper scowl aimed at Peter, who has spent the entirety of Jon's complaint bringing himself closer, permeating into Jon's space.

"That does sound like me," Peter offers. His hand comes up to cup against Jon's cheek, the skin rain wet and cool, and when Jon's not Watching him the sensation is like a fog made solid. How he imagines a ghost might feel.

If he thought ghosts were real. Jon sighs, following as Peter tilts his head further back. "Peter."

"Did you miss me?" Peter asks right before he dips the short distance between them to brush their lips together.

Cold, soft flesh or- the feeling of brackish spray, the salt water speckle of ocean water at his lips. It flips between the two sensations, like Peter is having trouble deciding just how human he is - there's a man at Jon's lips, smooth teeth catching and tugging, slick tongue easing him further and further open, exposed, taking from him more and more or-

Or Jon is alone, breathing in fog and rain thick enough to drown in, to waterlog his lungs into rich, sucking mud with every breath.

Peter draws back and Jon feels warmer. He licks his lips gone numb, tasting nothing. There's a hollow ache somewhere in his ribs, as Jon remembers suddenly that Peter was the last person to darken his doorstep, however many months ago that's been.

"I'll just let myself in, shall I?" Peter says, smile congenial and meaningless, already brushing past Jon with a cold water hand along his side. "Bully that I am."

"Typical," Jon mutters, mostly to himself as he's apparently the only one who cares what he has to say in this situation. "Please, Peter, come inside, make yourself at home. Have some tea."

"You really are too kind." Peter shucks his coat off onto the pile of books Jon has been reading. Immune to the sour glare Jon sends after him. "But if you insist I'll take mine with some sugar."

Jon is at a loss for anything scathing enough to express himself. Instead, he takes the few steps into the kitchen, to the kettle, attention more on the creaking of his chair - his _favorite_ chair - as Peter settles into it. He generally keeps water simmering throughout the day, tends to find it handy to have a warm solvent available on short notice, so it doesn’t take much to stoke a proper temperature.

How does Peter take his tea, anyway? It's been long enough that Jon doesn't quite remember. If he actually likes sugar or if he'd prefer some kind of cream. There's something soothing to the routine of it all. Finding a pair of clean mugs, gathering the tea leaves. Watching how the water steams in the air, pours over the delicate lattice of the steepers, swirls in darkening curls around the confines their cups. He thinks Peter enjoys a stronger cup-

Not that Jon cares. At all.

He glares downwards, agitating the water in Peter’s mug. It’s annoying to realize he can hear Peter snooping in the other room. Rustling through his belongings, the soft whisper of the pages of a book being turned.

“Stop touching that,” he calls out, gratified at the quiet thump of said book being shut.

“Well that’s quite uncanny of you,” Peter responds brightly.

Jon might tap the infusers dry a little harder than is strictly necessary when he pulls them out of the tea.

Peter has made himself thoroughly comfortable by the time Jon joins him. Sprawled in a lounge, taking up more space in Jon’s chair than Jon thinks he’s ever been capable of himself. Arms along the back of the chair. One of his legs is crooked on the other, and he smiles (not charmingly) obnoxiously, _expectantly_ at Jon.

It’s enough to make Jon want to pour his tea onto the floor.

“Aren’t you just a happy little homemaker?” Peter says as he takes his cup, and Jon wishes he’d poured it on his lap instead.

“Why are you here?” Jon snaps.

“We’ve been over that one.” Peter drinks, still watching him dark and bemused around the lip of his mug. “That’s quite good, Jon. You remembered how I like it.”

Jon feels his posture tighten. “A happenstance, I assure you.”

“Do you think about me much when I’m gone?”

Yes. “No. Why would I?”

There’s something uniquely insufferable about the smug, satisfied cast to Peter’s face, as if Jon has said exactly what he wanted to hear. As if he’s hearing the words between what Jon has actually said. Jon busies himself drinking his own tea.

“I can’t imagine you get many other visitors all the way out here.”

“By design.”

Peter’s teeth are so very white, bared in such a well-practiced smile. “Still. It must be awfully-”

“Lonely, yes, I’m aware.” Jon frowns at the flecks of tea leaf silting along the bottom of his cup. “I am completely, utterly alone in the world, Peter.”

Peter sighs, like it’s a pleasure. “It’s your best feature.”

Really, by now Jon should know better than to rise to any of Peter’s baiting. Knowing better, of course, doesn’t do anything to keep something sharp and prickling from tightening up in his chest. Jon sets his cup down, and lets the movement carry him slightly forward, as if he’s leaning in towards Peter from his seat.

“And your best feature,” Jon begins, low and measured, “Is that you have something to tell me. Don’t you?”

The compulsion shivers, vibrates between them like it’s strings that Jon has plucked with his tongue, grazed over and left them trembling, resonant in his wake.

“I wouldn’t come here empty handed,” Peter says, and Jon can almost believe the words weren’t wrenched out of him one syllable at a time, except for how Peter settles back into his chair and drains his mug, how his expression goes tense and carefully, severely blank. “I take it your diet option isn’t as satisfying as the real thing.”

Peter nudges the book on the table, dried now but still warped from its time in the sucking mudpit Jon had pulled it from. The library had been swallowed by the Buried long years ago – a rumor from before his grandmother’s time, even. There’s no way to tell now if it had ever been more than just that. If it was once a temple to knowledge in a more oblique manner.

But the books therein are old, and lost, long forgotten things. And the mud preserves them somehow. The mud stays _wet_ , somehow, regardless of season, of temperature, of clime.

“Even if it’s new to me, it isn’t new to the Watcher,” Jon replies. “It… tastes aged. Desiccated. Like trying to eat dust.”

Even if eating was perhaps not the correct metaphor. Even if there was never going to be a proper metaphor for that endless need inside him, insatiable appetite he’d been gifted with.

“And I’m to provide you something fresh.” Peter chuckles, holds his hand out until Jon relents and takes it in his own, allows Peter to pull him to the edge of his chair and then further, out of his seat. Jon slides to his knees. “I know. Your mouth was practically salivating when you opened the door.”

“So we both want something,” Jon says, resisting only for a moment as Peter keeps reeling him closer, drops his foot to the floor so he can spread his legs wide and usher Jon between them. “Isn’t that how this works?”

“It’s the little consistencies of life that are so very comforting, don’t you think?”

Consistencies. Jon debates telling Peter what they both know – that the only thing Peter finds comforting is the transaction of the thing, the only way he knows how to interact with other people along the straight-line tracks of give and take.

But then he’d have to admit something of himself, too. That he prefers it this way as well. The consistency of what Peter wants from him – a tonic, a tincture, some small ward that draws things in, always, never guards against something. Of how he’ll react as Jon twists his hand free, to place his palms on the inside of Peter’s thighs and guide them further apart. Firm, twitching muscle, solid the longer Peter is here, though he’s cold and his slacks are still damp with rain and fog.

Peter puts a hand to Jon’s hair and grabs a handful, yanks Jon’s head back with a snap and enough tight pain to make him hiss.

“You think that’s what I want from you?” Peter asks, not a little meanly, keeping Jon’s head wrenched backwards so he watches him from an angle.

“If we’re counting on things being consistent,” Jon murmurs. Peter twists his hand and Christ, that hurts, reactive tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. Even when Peter stops pulling and just maintains constant pressure, Jon’s scalp continues to throb.

Peter drops his free hand to cup against the front of his slacks, pushing his hips up into the touch. Palming himself almost vulgarly. “Well, far be it from me to deny my little witch his earthly delights.”

“I’m not a witch,” Jon protests. Ignoring the shiver Peter’s casual possession of him evokes.

“Why not?” Peter’s eased off a bit, strands of Jon’s hair threaded loosely through his fingers. “Is it the wardrobe? I can find something black for you to slip into. Maybe even a pointy hat.”

“How generous of you. Finally, I’ll be able to realize my potential, after all this time I’ve been missing a skirt and matching accessories.”

Jon slides his hands inward, and up, following the curve of Peter’s thighs to the crease of his hip. Peter is still stroking himself, and Jon watches as he squeezes around his prick. Knowing Peter, because he’s imagining Jon in a bloody skirt.

“Are you really thinking about it?” Jon asks, a touch more scathing than he actually feels, because Peter bites at his lower lip when he does. There’s a brief crescendo of static behind his eyes, between his ears, before he continues, “You are. Something short, that you think for some reason I’d be caught dead wearing, and you’re thinking of how easy it would be to slip beneath. Of how many surfaces in my home are high enough that bending me over one would leave me… exposed. Of how my erection would tent the front of it while I sat in your lap, on your cock, fabric hiked up around my hips.”

The rush of Knowing ends as abruptly as it began. Embarrassment floods in hotly to fill its void.

“Good lord, Peter-”

“Don’t go looking for things you don’t want to know,” Peter says, unrepentant. He pulls Jon’s hand in to take the place of his own, grinding his cock against Jon’s palm.

“You know that isn’t how it works,” Jon snaps. He rubs the heel of his hand firmly along the hard ridge of Peter’s cock. Blood hot now, Peter’s thigh warm beneath the fingers of Jon’s other hand as he traces up to the button of Peter’s slacks.

“With how… studious you are, I figured you would have at least made some progress on that front by now.”

Peter’s voice is unaffected, mainly. A small not-stutter of air coming loose when Jon pops his slacks undone, drags the zip down slowly enough he might be going tooth by tooth.

“It’s not as though pledging myself to the service of some horrible knowledge-amalgam has come with a series of instructions,” Jon says sourly. It’s a sore subject. “And unlike you, I don’t have an entire family’s worth of scions advising me on how I’m meant to do any of this.”

Jon’s gotten down to Peter’s briefs, pulled fabric aside and out of the way enough to have Peter’s cock straining through thin cloth, wet and clinging at the head. He pushes Peter’s shirt up, snaps the elastic of his pants as he teases at dipping below them.

“Poor-” Peter stops, not a gasp, just a pause as Jon thumbs at the tip of his cock. “Poor little Beholding pet, all alone. I’m told you usually come in twos.”

“Told by who?” Jon asks. The question buzzes through his teeth without thought and he grimaces, as though he could take it back.

Peter grimaces too, before he spits out, “Elias.”

“Elias? Who is-”

“Jon,” Peter interrupts, aided by the firm clap of his palm over Jon’s mouth, effectively muffling him, “That’s more than enough for now. I’d hate to have to gag you so early into our evening together.”

Jon wants to be irritated – and, to be fair, he is – but there’s a traitorous shiver down his spine at the wording, and he can tell his glare lacks the proper heat from the way Peter smiles at him, eases up so the rough palm at his lips is no longer a crushing weight. Only a solid, firm presence, more proof of how Jon’s stripped the fog and distance from Peter, calloused fingers warm and petting at his cheek.

“You are going to be good for me, aren’t you?” Peter asks. He tugs lightly with the hand still tangled in Jon’s hair, rearranges the other to brush his thumb over Jon’s lips, tracing over the bow and curve of them.

“Yes, Peter,” Jon says. More breathless than intended. He lets Peter pull him forward. Hurries with his hands to shuffle Peter’s cock free, thick and flushed and curving up towards the weight of his stomach.

“Oh, I know you’ll do your best, but you really do have such poor self-control.” Peter takes his prick in hand and strokes it loosely. “You’re lucky I’m here to put your mouth to better use.”

Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the kick in his stomach, the slow flush of warmth through his gut. He leans forward to take Peter into his mouth and makes a sharp noise of protest when Peter tightens his grip in his hair and yanks him back from it.

“I just told you you were lucky,” Peter chastises. “Don’t you think you should thank me for this opportunity?”

“Thank you, Peter.” Because this is part of it too. Or maybe because Jon’s been alone so long, still feels alone, and it’s only when Peter is around that he really recognizes that fact.

And this part is easy, anyway. Familiar. Peter’s cock heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth, salt and the almost leather taste of human skin. Firm and unyielding beneath smooth, silky skin. Jon sucks, looks up because Peter likes it – and Jon likes it, the angle of Peter above him, flushing skin, chest heaving with the tight control of his breathing – gags a little when Peter snaps his hips up and drags Jon down at the same time.

Peter keeps the head of his cock lodged neatly down Jon’s throat, for the most part, shallow thrusts that are more like rutting against his face. It brings tears to his eyes, stinging at their backs and welling, blurring his vision. Spilling, at which point Peter gives a quiet groan, prick pulled back to Jon’s mouth so he can feel the blurt of precome slickly bitter against his tongue.

They’re quiet together. Muffled noises from both of their throats and the wet, vulgar sounds of Jon’s mouth sliding over Peter’s dick. A watery choke or cough every now and again as Peter purposefully works to trigger Jon’s gag reflex, aiming the head of his cock up towards the back of his throat.

Jon supposes it’s been long enough for the both of them. It isn’t long before Peter is thrusting rapidly into Jon’s mouth, barely giving him time to recover between forceful shoves into his throat and then Peter is cursing. He yanks Jon off by his hair and palms himself roughly, tugging at his flushed red cock.

“Open your mouth,” Peter demands and Jon obeys, letting his tongue loll out too, breath coming short and fast watching Peter work himself to completion. “I should make you beg for it, little slut.”

“Please, Peter.” His voice comes out a harsh, low rasp, nearly breaking in the middle. “I want you to- I want to watch you, _taste_ you-”

Peter comes with a wordless groan, stroking himself furiously and keeping the head aimed at Jon’s face, painting the bridge of his nose and the line of his brow, spilling copiously across Jon’s lips and tongue. Milking himself into Jon’s mouth. Until Jon leans forward, anyway, and wraps his lips around the end of Peter’s dick, swirling his tongue and the mess of Peter’s ejaculate around as he coaxes the remainder of Peter’s orgasm out of him.

“Christ,” Peter laughs, a little breathless, “You’re certainly gagging for it this time, aren’t you?”

Jon swallows around the head of his cock. It just so happens to flex the length of his tongue along Peter’s still swollen prick, makes Peter jerk and hiss at the sensation. He watches Peter shudder his way through the overstimulation. Appealingly undone at his edges and alive, solid where Jon scratches his nails lightly over the inside of his thighs, sucks at his cock and hollows his cheeks.

Peter’s hips buck upwards, once, and then Peter is bodily shoving Jon away, knocking him off balance enough that Jon falls back on his arse. He catches himself on one hand, rubs at the mess Peter’s made of his mouth with the knuckles of his other. The treatment doesn’t bother him the way he thinks it perhaps should. Perhaps would have, once, before this had become his life – before isolation became a haven, a muzzle. Before this push and pull had become a constant, the most regular human interaction he received.

It fills some hollow inside him and makes him ache for Peter to leave again in the same breath. Peter gives a little laugh, like he can taste these thoughts in the air. He pauses in putting himself away to beckon Jon closer.

“You did me the kindness of cleaning me off,” Peter murmurs as a sort of explanation. Not that it matters – Jon’s already followed the crook of his finger, and only grimaces as Peter yanks his shirt half undone to swipe across the semen now cool on his face. “It’s only right to repay you the same.”

“Magnanimous of you, really.”

Peter’s rather rough with him. This, too, another pattern, another repayment, trading distance for vulnerability and back again. Peter holds him at arm’s length with a critical eye when he deems himself finished, when Jon’s cheeks feel thoroughly chafed.

“Are you feeling you’d like some reciprocity tonight?” Peter asks.

Jon considers. “Not- Ah, later?”

Peter shrugs, extremely unconcerned. “However you like it.”

And Jon’s released, a simple, easy motion that leaves him feeling vaguely untethered, kneeling between Peter’s knees with his hands folded against his thighs. Peter’s attention has already begun to wander. Jon takes the provided opportunity to study him, the grey flint of his eyes as they search across Jon’s appointments for something suitable to entertain himself with.

There’s something disconcerting about Peter’s apparently unchanging nature. Jon looks and looks and sees nothing anew, nothing amiss, and yet still feels like he’s- missing something. Like he’s watching a blossom unfurl in real time, expecting its petals to expand between blinks. Except Peter leaves for months and remains the same half-closed bloom on return.

Jon sighs, and tries to shake the feeling loose. Ignore it. As if he’s ever been capable of letting a question go unanswered.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead of saying anything he wants to say.

Peter blinks as if he’s already forgotten Jon was there. “Famished, darling.” Another slow, white smile. “And really, it’s about time you asked. Usually I’d expect dinner on the table by the time I got in, my slippers by the door, a glass of brandy at hand-”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, pushing to his feet. Swatting Peter’s hand away from whatever the man was planning to grab at.

“Just offering some critiques,” Peter says. Blithely undeterred from sharing his opinion even as Jon stalks away from him. “I thought you’d want something constructive concerning your performance.”

“I’m not performing for you.” Jon begins the arduous task of aggressively, clatteringly, pulling out pots and pans.

It’s not quite enough to drown out Peter’s commentary. “And not that I’m complaining, of course, but next time you’re planning to gag yourself on my cock-”

“No, thank you!”

* * *

It’s been a while since Jon has been able to get to the small town that’s just barely within walking distance of his grandmother’s house. Not that he hasn’t had the time, because aside from regular maintenance around the grounds and spelunking into the Sunken Pit, Jon has a frankly unheard-of amount of spare energy on his hands. But he’s been- hungry. Too hungry to risk letting himself around other people.

A hunger that’s sharp and piercing in his stomach now. A bright throbbing between his temples and behind his eyes, filling up all the spaces there within. Whetting itself against every moment spent in company. Static like a bramble in his mind, rising to a thorned crescendo so he can barely hear what Peter’s saying at times, sat across the table from each other with the rain lessened to a steady balm drumming lowly over the roof and dribbling down the windows in inconsistent rivulets.

It’s been a while, so they’re having whatever Jon had on hand. Which amounts to rice and the few variations of vegetables he’s learned how to coax out of the earth around here. A quick sauce that tastes… fine, he supposes. Jon’s not generally picky about what he eats – and half the time forgoes it anyway. Some foggily remembered sense of propriety had Jon make himself a plate even though he’s barely touched it, has mostly spent his time moving food around with his fork and watching Peter eat.

“That’s rather unnerving of you, you know,” Peter mentions between bites.

Jon blinks but doesn’t move his gaze. “Excuse me.”

“Thinking about dessert already?”

A small shiver pours down his spine. Thinking of how easy it would be, to ask now. To let the food cool between them and the candles burn down and make Peter talk until his voice goes hoarse and broken. Jon licks his lips and has to look away.

“I rather think you’re the main course in this analogy,” Jon says.

“Careful, Jon – talk like that goes straight to my head, you know.”

“Yes,” Jon drawls with an eye roll, “I can’t begin to imagine what a horror you’d be with an over-inflated sense of your own worth.”

“Absolutely dreadful,” Peter agrees. And then winks at him. Jon snorts. “Actually, I’m quite looking forward to dessert myself.”

“A little presumptuous to just assume you’re having something, isn’t it?”

“Am I not?” Peter does his best attempt at a pout, which is rather good, a spoiled brat in so many surprisingly human ways.

Jon doesn’t answer, looking away. Out the window, towards the landscaping he can barely make out through the distortion of rain and white, blanketing fog. “Finish your meal.”

Peter laughs, low and pleased.

* * *

They lounge in the bath together. Peter is a broad presence at Jon’s back, supporting most of his weight, Jon’s head tipped back against Peter’s chest. It’s a good angle. Jon can turn, crane his neck to the side, when he wants to lap at the cooling beads of water speckled along Peter’s throat.

And Peter can wrap his arms around him, push and arrange him with effortless motion. Sometimes he drops his chin onto the top of Jon’s head. Sometimes he hums some deep, buzzing tune that reverberates from his body through to Jon’s. An older song than the merry jigs he likes to whistle, filled with low, resonant notes that seem to quake and leave strings of ache vibrant along Jon’s bones.

It’s cramped. Their limbs tangle half in the water, or dangle over the side to drip onto the tiles. Steam drifts off the water, off any skin that breaks the surface. Peter’s chest rises and falls with the slow, steady pace of his breathing when it isn’t otherwise occupied.

Jon raises his hand out of the water to trace along the curve of Peter’s fingers, draped around the lip of the tub. There’s a hooked scar in the dip between Peter’s thumb and forefinger. He runs his fingertip over the tidy aberration like the action alone will tell him what he wants to know.

Peter, of course, doesn’t volunteer an answer. He does catch Jon’s hand with his own, folds it neatly into his palm and then squeezes the joints together until Jon wriggles and gasps. Keeps it captured as he draws Jon’s hand up to his mouth, breathes cold over his wrist before pressing his lips against the tender stretch of skin. Chaste for the moment it takes his mouth to open, before the slick shocking warmth of his tongue, before the bite of his teeth.

Jon twists himself around, knocking Peter’s grip loose to bring them face to face. Peter’s looking at him with amusement, not warmth but something almost like it. He pets a hand through Jon’s wet hair. Pushes it out of his eyes and peels it off his shoulders, a few nimble turns of his wrist until he has the whole length like a lead in his fist. Peter pulls him by it and Jon follows, tilts his head.

“Getting long again,” Peter comments inanely.

“Not many options for barbers in my neighborhood I’m afraid.”

Peter’s fingers in his hair tighten, and tug, and Jon feels the strain in his neck when he bares his throat. “Are you going to leave it like this, then?”

“Do you like it?” Jon asks before he can think better of it. “Don’t answer that. I can always cut it myself.”

“Can, and haven’t.”

“It’s hardly been a pressing matter,” Jon complains. Shifting because Peter is insistently pulling him upwards now, reeling him in closer. “I suppose between managing the grounds, excavating a library, and keeping a ravenous, knowledge-hungry, otherworldly Thing satisfied, I should have given more thought as to how my appearance might offend your sensibilities.”

“Glad we’re in agreement, then.”

There’s more to argue over, but Peter brings their mouths together with the one hand still snared around Jon’s hair. This much heat is intoxicating, dizzying – the water around them that sloshes gently with each movement, laps between them anywhere flushed skin doesn’t meet. Peter drapes his free arm around Jon’s waist, a heavy weight settled against the small of his back, keeping him close.

* * *

Later finds them in Jon’s bedroom. Jon digs his teeth into the sheets under his mouth, whining plaintively. It feels like Peter’s had his fingers inside him for ages now. Teasing him apart, coaxing him open. He’s sprawled across Peter’s lap, Peter’s cock a hot, firm length against his stomach. Arranged so he can buck his hips against Peter’s thigh in increasing desperation, his own prick smearing in the precome he’s drooled over Peter’s skin.

“Peter,” he gasps, barely managed because Peter chooses that moment to jam his fingers against his prostate and Jon’s greater perception of the world at large is knocked loose. A confusing yes/no impulse that makes his legs tremble, his hips grinding in tight circles.

“Yes, dear?”

Peter works him hard and fast, pushing in deep with his fingers and stroking against Jon’s insides. Spreads his fingers apart until Jon can’t even tell what sounds he’s making, what his body at large is doing. Reduced to the sensation of Peter breaking him open, everything slick and good and too much, and Jon still finds himself wanting more. Pushing back into every touch.

There’s a slap to his ass cheek that makes Jon yelp. Bright and stinging sensation, quickly searing into a sweet, throbbing burn. Peter hooks the fingers still inside him and smacks him again, on the other side now, and again. It’s so much, Peter inside of him as his body instinctively clenches. The sharp burst of pain after every strike of Peter’s open palm, the glowing blossom afterwards.

“I expect,” Peter says – annoyingly collected, even with Jon drooling and rutting against his leg – punctuated with another slap of his hand to Jon’s ass, “An answer when I ask you a question.”

“A bit- ah, ironic?” Jon gasps, broken in the middle when Peter swats at him again.

“Sure.”

Peter seems to find a rhythm. Pushing his fingers hard into Jon, tugging at him rim when he begins to withdraw. Ending with a slap to one cheek or another until Jon feels lightheaded with it, breathless noises falling from his slack mouth.

“I answered you,” Jon snaps. Panting to breathe through it all, his backside throbbing and hot. A surface level ache Jon can’t help but feel slightly irritated at. Wishing it went deeper.

“Mm, not exactly.”

Peter’s fingers slip out of him with a slick, lewd sound. Jon feels their loss keenly, left open and empty. He can’t suppress a noise at the movement – a low, hungry thing – can’t help the way his hips buck and twitch. Peter slaps him for it. The beginning of a flurry of strikes that set Jon to writhing, autonomously trying to wriggle his way free.

It curls in his gut. Pulses in his cock and his abused skin. Jon almost manages to struggle himself free, but Peter slips one hand around his waist and hauls him back in. Effortless in a way that makes Jon’s stomach swoop in the freefall before Peter is smacking him again.

It’s this next series that almost brings tears to his eyes. Peter just won’t let up, and it hurts, Christ, until it feels like there’s nothing else but this, the needle-sharp pain of Peter’s hand and the all-consuming heat it leaves behind, pooling tight and taut inside him. Jolting shocks that turn molten, wind together somewhere low.

“Peter, please,” Jon begs shamelessly. Has been begging shamelessly, only half aware of what comes out of his mouth at any one moment. His voice is thick, and reedy, and his breathing hitches dangerously when Peter simply lands another heavy blow to his ass.

“Please what?”

Jon doesn’t even know. If he wants this to end or if he wants more, always more, something awful and insatiable coiled out of sight somewhere within him. Peter takes his indecision as a choice, which seems typical. Slapping him a last time for a bright, scintillating moment. Before Jon is surging himself upwards with enough force that Peter looks taken aback. Caught off guard enough that Jon can shove him back against the headboard.

“Well, well, isn’t this a-”

“Shut up,” Jon demands, and it buzzes between his teeth. Down his throat and further as he straddles Peter’s lap, one hand on Peter’s chest while he reaches behind him with the other to find Peter’s cock.

Peter’s mouth snaps shut with a satisfying click.

Peter’s cock is firm against his palm, blood hot and slick from where they’d started all this grinding off against each other. It’s with a practiced ease that Jon holds Peter’s length steady, arches his hips even as Peter’s hands come up to grip them. Steadies and pushes himself down, until he feels the thick head of Peter’s cock teasing against his hole.

There’s a moment between them. Jon’s back bowed as he positions Peter’s cock, Peter’s hands on him, steadying him, digging fingers into him hard enough to bruise. Jon circles his hips down until Peter huffs out a long breath and throws his head back, and then seats himself as far as he can go.

Which is, as it turns out, not far enough. Peter is _big_ , in all aspects, a fact that time apart has only unacclimated Jon to. Jon gasps at the stretch, even more than Peter’s fingers could prepare him for, burning as the heft of his cock pries him open. He stops not even halfway down, which is when Peter’s hands tighten on his hips and force him the rest of way, heedless of how Jon cries and his body bucks against Peter’s firm grip.

And oh, it feels good – to struggle and not have it matter. To know that he can thrash and whine and scratch and Peter will just keep him seated to the hilt on his cock the whole while. Which happens, as Jon instinctively attempts to jolt upwards and Peter grinds him down instead, Jon’s thighs trembling beneath the strain.

Jon groans. He gasps, trying to breathe around the heavy weight of Peter’s cock inside him, hard and insistent. Stretching him so full that he fears he might just split apart at his seams, and it’s terrible, awful, too much and too good all at once.

He fists his hands in Peter’s hair and yanks, tugs him into a kiss that he can just feel Peter smirking into. Tries to let it distract him, even as Peter rolls his hips below him, tugs him into every motion until Jon has to break away just to pant for air, just to try and not shudder himself into overstimulation.

Despite what he’d prefer to think, it’s Peter who sets the pace between them. All but dragging Jon upwards before sliding him back down. A move that makes Jon all the more intimate with the length and breadth of Peter’s cock. Jon’s breath goes ragged and hitched when Peter’s seated fully inside him again. He only takes it for a moment before Peter is stirring him back into motion. Up, and up, until the tip of Peter’s cock is barely holding him open, before he’s encouraged to take the whole of it another aching time.

“Ahh,” Jon sighs. He’s so full he feels like he’s going to burst, somehow. But he rocks down regardless, clamps his thighs against Peter’s hips when it seems like Peter is threatening to move him again.

Both his hands find the headboard, barring Peter in on both sides with his arms. Peter tips his head back, looking just barely flustered, his hair soft and falling towards his eyes in sweat slick curls. Peter’s broad palms are on Jon’s hips. They slide back until they’re cupping his ass, instead.

“Nice and stuffed, are we?” Peter murmurs.

Jon’s eyes flutter, half-lidded but they don’t close, too invested in watching. He licks his lips – distantly gratified at the way Peter’s own gaze drops to catch the movement – and circles his hips down. “Not, ah- Not quite.”

“Insatiable.” Peter doesn’t say that like it’s a bad thing.

“Peter Lukas.” His voice has deepened. It only partially feels like it’s still himself. (Or, perhaps that’s not accurate. Perhaps this is the most he ever feels like himself, connected.) “Tell me your story.”

That’s not exactly accurate, either. He’s already had Peter’s story, after all. Taken the first time they met, when Peter had come across him starving and half-insensate with it. Nearly feral.

But that’s the wonderful, awful thing about Peter Lukas. His line of work, such as it is, lends itself well to experiences. Experiences the Seer is eager to taste. To know. Delectable in a way some other stories are not, because these are things that don’t want to be known, cold and fog-shrouded and lonesome.

“What do I even have left to tell you, hmm?” Peter asks, though they both know it’s not true. They both know he hasn’t come empty handed. “Do you want to hear about another faceless sacrifice? I don’t think I got their name this time. It starts to matter less and less.”

It doesn’t particularly matter what Jon wants to hear. He’s rapt now that Peter has begun. Starting with, yes, his newest, faceless sacrifice. A young man, the desperation and despair, utter hopelessness, pouring off him like waves of billowing salt. That kind of terror; that kind of fear, of isolation – it’s pungent. Acrid, almost, and addictive in a way that Peter enjoys but has no interest in getting close to. That’s how he likes it.

Of course, there’s never any guarantee of who will be chosen, ultimately. It’s not up to Peter. Desperate, lonely people – there’s no shortage of them, after all. That’s the most perfect part of them. There’s nothing special about their circumstances. Variable in potency alone. The trip out to the creature is the part of the journey Peter really appreciates. All of his crewmembers orbiting around one another without intersect. They without their captain, keen in his absence. Reduced to fog and smoke and passive, patient hunger.

Peter’s right, of course. It matters less and less. It’s something Jon has heard before. He squirms in place, impatient, gasping at the renewed ache sparked along his insides from the action. Peter’s cock is hard and hotly throbbing in the clutch of his body. Peter’s hands squeeze tightly at his ass, but his voice doesn’t waver. The Seer won’t let it.

Because Peter has something for him, for _Them_ , Jon knows it. So, Peter tells Jon what he does after the boatswain’s call has sounded. After the Tundra has settled to port again, with a familiarity that sears like a scalding rain across open skin. When Peter’s wandering brings him to London. To a flat that’s ostentatious, pretentious. High above the city, sharp modern angles backlit by the frames of tall, floor to ceiling windows. He likes that about Elias’ flat, actually. How they can see the lights of all those people, so distant and separate.

Is that what they want to hear about?

“Is that what you want to hear about?” Peter chuckles, rolling his hips. “Jealous.”

Elias Bouchard isn’t his first name. Peter doesn’t know what his original name was. He suspects he never will, if Elias has his way. Elias enjoys his secrets, after all. It’s rather hypocritical, how all these Eye folk hoard their knowledge, greedy and possessive.

But Peter first knew him as Michael Beaumont, when Peter himself was still a young man. Not quite eager to know the Institute that was so deeply ensnared with his family. Michael was already an established figure in their circles, an older gentleman that nonetheless had a keenness of eye that, really, shouldn’t have caught Peter by surprise as much as it had. They shook hands once, and that was that, until they met again when Peter came to greet the new Head of the Institute and found the same slate grey eyes in a newer – younger – face. Smiling, like they, the two of them, were finally in on some great, shared joke.

That was, generally, how things went between them. Time passes strangely in the Lonely, it turns out. Peter wouldn’t be shocked to find that time distortion is part and parcel of it entire. It does feel that way. Some deep and abiding longing inherent to the concept. Peter would leave, and Michael would age. They wouldn’t fall together into bed until Peter had visited another funeral, and left with the generous new Institute Head. So compassionate as to honor his former leader.

After that, well. It was more like that shared joke of theirs. It became something of a habit. A routine. Break in the body of Elias’ latest host. Wine and dine a new face every odd number of years, who was even counting by then. New lines to learn, new ways to whine and scratch and plead. Same eyes, hazy with lust and somehow smugly assured control, no matter that he was bent in half in Peter’s bed and seeing him through so many formless eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be feasting on fear in these statements of yours?” Peter asks. The hypnotic tide of his voice is gone. Jon stirs, and winces at the reminder of Peter’s cock still stretching him open. He feels hazy with lassitude, blinking slowly. Full, and lax with it. “Or are you taking your voyeuristic pleasures more literally now?”

“I- I can’t control what you-” _Tell me_ , Jon intends to finish, but he isn’t sure that’s true, and the way Peter’s eyebrows rise make it obvious he’s thinking something similar.

“Well, you clearly enjoyed yourself all the same.”

It feels like he’s still slowly coming back into his own body. Peter’s hand tight around his cock, then, is enough to shock a cry out of him, his attention all at once drawn to a new source of throbbing need. All Peter has to do is twist his wrist – and buck his hips just so, so that his cock cores into him, drives hard inside him and makes Jon’s vision briefly white as he comes in a static rush.

Peter works him through it mercilessly, grinding himself upwards without letting up and milking Jon’s cock until come is strung across his knuckles and smeared between their stomachs and he doesn’t stop even when Jon starts flinching away from the sensation.

“Oh, were you finished already?”

Peter takes his hand off his cock – thank Christ – but it’s only to have both free to heft Jon off of his own prick and Jon almost sobs at the sensory input against overcharged nerves, the unbearable drag of Peter’s cock on and on and on until it slips free and leaves him aching, distinctly empty. Peter tosses him to his back on the mattress.

“I don’t remember you letting me decide when I was finished,” Peter says. He’s spreading Jon’s legs apart, bending them up – like Elias, Jon’s mind flashes, visions of a bed he doesn’t know, a man he doesn’t know being folded into the same position – and then Peter’s rubbing the head of his cock between Jon’s thighs again. “I think I’ll return the favor.”

“W-Wait,” Jon pleads, a little desperate. A lot desperate, as Peter hooks Jon’s knees over his shoulders and presses achingly at his rim. Every stretch of skin that touches feels electric, alive. Peter huffs out something like a chuckle, but he pauses, watching Jon expectantly. “P-Please. Peter.”

Peter hums, quiet. Considering. Jon’s hands press at the thick muscles of his chest. “No. I’ve waited long enough.”

Peter drives his cock inside him in one smooth, awful motion, and the heft of it punches the air out of Jon’s lungs in a whining rush. Peter doesn’t give his overstimulated body time to adjust, pulling out and thrusting in again before Jon can even _breathe_ , and it’s so much, too much, nothing but sharp bolts of sensation stabbing him to the core, clenching his gut.

Peter fucks him, like, well, like he’s been waiting to fuck him nigh on twenty minutes while being teased out of his mind. Jon can barely gasp for air around the pace he sets, around the spasming clench of his own body after every thrust. He’s reduced to writhing beneath Peter’s bulk. Pinned in place by Peter’s weight, hands free to scratch and claw at Peter’s shoulders. Trying to ride out of the crashing waves of pleasure-pain that pound through his body in time to Peter’s cock.

“What would you do,” Peter grinds out between slick, upending slides of his cock, “Without me here to satisfy you?”

Jon’s not expected to answer, except in the way his spine arches and bows when Peter touches his cock again, and drags him mercilessly towards a too-early orgasm. He can’t think, he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but be held open and fucked pliant, chanting an endless litany of pleas that do nothing but make Peter slam into him harder, if that’s even possible.

Jon comes a second time almost painfully, everything sharp and overwhelming, clenching and winding and tight and suddenly too much, crested neatly beyond the line of anything he’s equipped to handle. It doesn’t stop, of course, because Peter doesn’t stop, even as he curses at the clutching vice of Jon’s body around him. Peter doesn’t stop until he buries himself hip deep and comes with a satisfied groan.

They all but collapse together, breathing heavy in the aftermath. Plastered together with sweat as well as less palatable bodily fluids. Peter’s still inside him but Jon thinks the extra input of him pulling out might actually make him sob at this point. His legs slip down one careful adjustment at a time, until they’re wrapped around Peter closer to his waist rather than bracketing his head.

Jon whines incoherently when Peter makes to pull away, tightening around him. It’s. Extremely embarrassing, in a way that Jon can’t fully access just yet.

Peter laughs at him, and settles down, his weight flattening the air out of Jon’s lungs again in a quiet _oof_. He works his hips until Jon shudders around him, keeping his softening cock inside him.

“Far be it from me to deny you anything,” Peter says against his neck.

It’s not exactly comfortable, but Peter’s breathing is already beginning to even out and Jon is quite efficiently pinned in place. He contemplates struggling for a moment, because this is assuredly _not_ what he had meant to inspire. After a few half-hearted wiggles, however, it feels undeserving of the effort involved.

* * *

They have to get washed again. A cursory thing, at least, so they’re not completely filthy in the morning. Peter takes the washcloth from Jon’s hand to pet lowly over his stomach and pelvis. Jon runs wet fingers through the mess of Peter’s hair, tidying it back into its somewhat-usual style.

Peter is resolutely useless while Jon changes the sheets, except to scoop him up by the waist and chuck him into the bed after the task is finished.

“What did you come here for?” Jon asks, once Peter is settled again at his side. Rolled over to face each other, in the soft almost gloom of the night. “I assume it wasn’t solely for the pleasure of my company.”

“Maybe I’ve already gotten what I came here for,” Peter answers more salaciously than a man who’s already gotten laid has any need to be.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Do you ever find yourself exhausting to be around?”

“Why? Have I exhausted you? Poor thing.”

They lapse into silence while Peter reaches out to fiddle with the length of Jon’s hair draped over his shoulder. Jon sighs, relaxing into the petting without much thought. He’s almost asleep when Peter speaks again.

“There is something you can do for me,” he says. Jon cracks open an eye. “Now that I’ve sated you so thoroughly.”

“It’s only taken you an entire day to get to the point,” Jon mutters. “Do you need to- know something?”

It’s tricky, trying to wrangle the Seer into giving him information he actually wants to know. Easier when he’s been _sated_ , as Peter calls it. He’s not up for scrying tonight, but the morning – or afternoon, whichever – is as good a time as any.

“Not quite. I want something from you.” Jon is peering at him with both eyes now. Interested. Unfortunately alert. “More specifically, something from your little library project. A book.”

Jon props himself up on an elbow. “A book?”

“No ordinary title.”

“Obviously.”

“But something I’ve been looking for for quite some time. Even my more resourceful friends haven’t been able to get their hands on a copy.”

“’Friends,’” Jon repeats, dripping in sarcasm. Peter smiles charmingly at him. “What makes you think it’s even in there? That I could find it?”

“Oh, come now, I’ve certainly learned better than underestimate your abilities, Jon.” The praise is unexpected, and Jon would really prefer to not feel himself flushing at it now. “And, of course, I know there’s no guarantee that your muddy pit has a copy. But I think you’d agree it’s more likely than not, at this point.”

“And why would I agree with that?”

“The title of the book.” Peter pauses, for dramatic effect most likely. “ _The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing_.”

Well, yes. That does sound like something that could potentially be buried in what could potentially, at one point, have been a sanctuary for the Endless Watcher. “I haven’t come across it thus far.”

“You’re always planning to go back down, aren’t you? Might as well take a quick look around for it the next time you do.” Peter reaches out to cup a hand around the back of Jon’s neck, pull his tightly-wound body back in next to him. Their lips brush together. “Besides, you’ve already accepted the payment.”

Peter’s ability to instantly sour a mood should stop catching him off guard at some point. In all honesty, Jon isn’t even sure what about the request is rankling him so badly.

Except that something about the library feels like- like it’s _his_ , and the idea of letting Peter walk off with anything from within its walls is just… discomforting. Even moreso something that Jon hasn’t even had the chance to read yet.

“So, when will you be wanting this book of yours? The next time you come by?” Which gives Jon a few months, at least. To find the bloody thing, if it exists in his archive at all, and to look through it, experience it-

“I’d actually thought I might stay a while this time,” Peter comments with a smile. “A couple of days, maybe more. Whatever it takes. I’m the captain, you know – the ship can hardly leave without me.”

“Captain Lukas,” Jon says. “How could I forget.”

“Why do I never have you call me that?” Peter asks. He pulls Jon towards him, reeling Jon in against his chest with an arm slung low around the small of his back.

“Maybe because I’ve never even been on your boat-”

“It’s a ship, Jon.”

“-And I have no intention of rectifying that.”

“Come now,” Peter says. Pouting. He’s pouting, the spoiled brat. “No intention at all?” Peter’s hand is warm at the base of Jon’s spine, just above the swell of his ass. Stroking over the skin there.

“None whatsoever.”

“I’m hurt. I invite you to come home with me every time I’m here.”

“Yes, you do,” Jon concedes. Busying himself stroking fingers through the curls of Peter’s chest hair.

“Which would include your safe passage on the Tundra.” Peter seems to think he’s made some irrefutable point. Jon makes a noncommittal sound in response. “Don’t believe me? The captain’s bedwarmer is exempt from sacrificial duties, I can assure you.”

“Good lord,” Jon mutters, squirming in place. Delightfully trapped in place by Peter’s arm still slinked around his waist.

“The offer’s always on the table.”

Jon knows that. He thinks about it, sometimes. After Peter is long gone and Jon’s left to himself again. He thinks of the empty, echoing halls and rooms of Mooreland and imagines himself wandering them like a ghost. He wonders how long he’ll be able to avoid that fate for himself and then, sickly, wonders when that offer will be taken away. When he’ll miss it, and be left to starve himself into a ravenous _thing_ out here all alone, chewing the meat out of written word.

“So, can I expect you’ll start your search tomorrow?” Peter asks once the quiet between them has stretched.

Jon rouses himself from his admittedly morbid thoughts. “…Yes. Yes, all right.”

“Excellent!” Peter’s cheer seems genuine enough. Jon wishes it were more infective.

Either oblivious or uncaring, Peter tucks Jon against his side. Turning himself into a more comfortable position, and clearly feeling generous as he lets Jon tangle their legs together. It won’t take him long to fall back asleep, Jon knows. Not that he would ever admit it, but the rhythmic tidal ebb of Peter’s breathing, up and down, is its own lulling numbness.

Jon closes his eyes. Drinks in the sensation of their bodies pressed together. Unfamiliar and achingly known all at once. He wonders which nightmares he’ll dream of tonight.

He wonders if he dares to hope for dreams of a man he doesn’t know. Will probably never know. Beholden, as they both are.


End file.
